I felt the mascara
 run down like broken fountain pens
like trauma we wish to forget—
    but patterns the psyche like bloodstains
    on a white dress

my heart has been     still
    since you’ve said those words;
the shell of my body has
moved soullessly
and    poetry won’t repair
this because

my mind circles you like vultures

—but maybe there’s solace
in the    soft fabric of
old headphones.
worn.

and when I put them on,
    everything else is gone
and     nothingness
is bliss
and life is softer to the touch,
not                             overstimulating,
because songs are just poetry
brewed on the beauty of musical strings.

and when I hit play,
suddenly I’m     transported 
into 
Kendrick Lamar’s m.A.A.d city of Compton,
Phoebe Bridgers’ Kyoto skies,
Taylor Swift’s folklorian forests,

and that’s so much better than reality sometimes—
    even if those songs are lyrical tragedies,
they have color.

chords and melodies grab my hand
take me into     old castles
and     love-permeated high schools,
    give me something new.

and I know     I was never good with words,
all of my poems are like textbooks,
but music helps me speak

when crying displaces speech.

to my headphones,
you’ve been with me through so much.